


hold on (come home to me)

by inattention



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Relationship Study, side atsukage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:46:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25626145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inattention/pseuds/inattention
Summary: There is love that rattles chests, misplaces ribs, turns skin inside out. There is love that ravages and dethrones; there is love that burns and oozes; there is love that is beyond comprehension and beyond salvation.And there is this.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 20
Kudos: 101





	hold on (come home to me)

  
There is a quaint little house away from the bustling heart of Tokyo that Wakatoshi comes home to when his schedule opens up and he has time to spare. The house is often empty now, mostly devoid of its owners who both have too many things to chase after to stay rooted to the soil. It’s more difficult now, of course, with the world calling his name, beckoning for him to step forward and forward and _forward_ —until he’s standing on the precipice of everything that he’s ever known with a letter in his fist.

Another step is all it takes to get him to Poland.

* * *

He and Sakusa Kiyoomi have an unspoken agreement to not talk about the way things are, mostly because they’re both way too aware that if they did take the time to hash it out, they’d be worse off than when they started. Instead they take to the clean-cut method of answering a question with another question. It is simple.

_What was even there to talk about?_

They were both completely different people with completely different goals, and they understood that about each other. It’s an ideal arrangement, even when it’s one that raises a few eyebrows.

 _What do you want?_ They get asked all the time, like they’re confused. It’s not like that.

They all have a solid grasp on what they want, and it’s exactly because of this that Wakatoshi stays where he is, feet planted on the ground. There are things he must do, and they both understand this, because Sakusa has things of his own—the degree on information technology that he’s painstakingly staying in college to finish, the supplementary classes he’s taking on the weekends, the sessions he makes with his therapist, and volleyball.

For them, it’s always, always, _always_ been about volleyball to some extent, and that is how they want it to be.

Wakatoshi understands their distance very well, and he’s very good at handling it. The only real time he sees Sakusa is when he’s visiting, and even then, the meetings are always cut short by a phone call. He pops up then and again from behind the net, across the court, on top of the world—his seamless, perfectly schooled poker face contorted into a smile of challenge.

It’s something, but it is not a lot, and that’s not enough for most people. Sometimes, it isn’t enough for Wakatoshi, too: there are moments where he is more monster than human and thus he gets greedy.

He wants more of Sakusa. Wants more of his rare, blink-and-you-miss-it smiles, hidden behind mugs and coffee cups; his slender, pale hands, angling out towards the light; the way _Wakatoshi-kun_ sounds from on his lips, a distant memory or maybe perhaps something that was always meant to be there.

More of Sakusa, pliant and sweet under his amiable hands, competitive and fiery without, a person of thorough means and ends.

Sakusa. Sakusa Kiyoomi. The love of his life. 

  
Wakatoshi spends tonight like he spends so many of their other practice games. That is to say that he is standing outside the MSBY locker room, arms stiff at his sides, his duffel bag loose in his hold as he waits for his boyfriend to come out.

Tobio comes along for the ride today, baby blues big and wide as he fidgets with his water bottle. He’s flustered, but that is something that happens to couples still in the honeymoon phase, he reminds himself. When he asks if he is okay, Tobio only averts his eyes and mumbles something indecipherable, so he doesn’t ask again.

Hinata Shouyou comes out first, a blur of energy and static. He is smiling, as always, and this only widens when he sees Tobio standing there.

“ _Atsumu-san_ ,” he sings, loud enough to trigger Tobio into a series of incessant insults, “Kageyama’s here for you!”

There’s crashing and booming and then Miya is right by Hinata’s side. “Tobio-kun,” he gasps, breathless, and he falls towards him.

They fit very well together, Wakatoshi observes. Love, in little gestures. Tobio holds him like he’s holding something infinitely precious. Miya clutches into the ends of his shirt like he couldn’t bear to let go. It’s nice to see—it’s rare to see love, nowadays. His days have been dominated by volleyball statistics and the haze of clicking through too many business emails.

Love is Sakusa Kiyoomi, after practice, curls still wet from the shower, eyebrows furrowed as he clicks on something on his phone. He looks surprised to see him. Rightly so.

Wakatoshi hasn’t had the time to text him today, which he always takes to mean that there would be a conflict in plans and Wakatoshi wouldn’t be able to pick him up like usual.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hello,” Wakatoshi replies. It’s a good start, he thinks.

But Sakusa only raises an eyebrow at him, pulling off his surgical mask so Wakatoshi could see his face. He said it was a habit he’d formed after Wakatoshi had mentioned, in passing, that he focused better if he could read the lips of someone who was speaking as he was hearing the words.

It wasn’t a big deal. He could manage without it, but Sakusa said _to love someone is to work hard to make things easier for them_ and he’d started doing it ever since.

“What are you doing here?” he asks again. His teammates wince in the background, he can see them, but it’s not unkind.

This just isn’t a thing they do. They don’t stand around waiting for each other, nor do they celebrate anniversaries or go on dates. It isn’t who they are.

The Adlers don’t think much of it. They don’t have much of a leg to stand on, anyway, and even if they did, they don’t like to meddle.

Hoshiumi talked more about defeating Hinata Shouyou than even his own boyfriend. Tobio’s current … _person_ … was confusing enough for Sakusa to disapprove of his taste in men very enthusiastically.

(He changed his mind the second he saw how happy they made each other. He would never admit it, though. Not even on his deathbed.)

He frowns, turning the words over in his mouth until he deemed them good enough to say. “I’d like to go home this weekend,” he tells him. Sakusa’s eyebrows slacken in understanding.

The house is where they both come to rest. Where they are not monsters, but lovers—where the walls have seen every misunderstanding, every hidden gesture, every love declaration left unspoken. Every tentative touch. Every kiss, done over the dining table and every heated caress whispered through the rustling of the bedsheets.

“I see. Be safe.”

“No.” Sakusa hums, patient, waiting for him to continue his line of thought. “I meant with you. If you wanted to come.”

“The team has an interview scheduled then.” Sakusa tells him, clicking his tongue. “Is it important?”

He thinks of the letter. _Poland_ , it said. _Come play for us_. “Not particularly,” he says. “It’s not urgent. I can go alone, first. I will wait there until you arrive. As long as it takes.”

Sakusa looks at him like he’s picking him apart. “Would you like me to be there?”

He doesn’t even pause when he replies, “Very much.”

They don’t say anything else; Sakusa pulls his mask back on, an indication that he was done with the conversation. “I’ll text you,” he informs him, flat. He turns back to his team. “I’ll talk to our manager about it. See you soon, and be safe until then.”

To be loved, he thinks, is to be whole. Lord knows that before Sakusa, he’s always felt a little out of the loop, like something was missing, like he was thrown out of rotation and was missing an inside joke. As a lover, the first lesson he’s been taught about Sakusa Kiyoomi and all his intricacies is how rarely he wants intimacy and how little of it he does want when the time arises.

Wakatoshi had only nodded and responded, easily, tirelessly, _alright, thanks for trusting me enough to tell me._ He did not completely understand it, but he was willing to learn.

It had been the first time, Sakusa tells him later, much later, that he’s felt seen. That he’s felt perceived in the way he wanted to be.

Wakatoshi remembers how uncertainty had looked on Sakusa, hands folded into his lap, hair styled with meticulous precision, lips glossy with balm—he’d always liked dolling up for important discussions, so he could feel some sort of control in the situation.

He is always put together, even when he is not. Wakatoshi tells him that it’s fine. That it’s going to be fine, even if he has to wait or if Sakusa is never comfortable with him.

“I am in love with you,” he tells him. “Is that enough?”

Sakusa hadn’t liked that answer. “It isn’t, if I could make you unhappy. Or if I will, in the near future.”

“I’m not. I would never stay with anyone who made me unhappy.” Because he really would not. He is Ushijima Wakatoshi and he is in love with Sakusa Kiyoomi and he is the furthest from _unhappy_ right now, sitting across from love and caution incarnate.

That night, Wakatoshi sleeps on the sofa beside the bed and he was not unhappy. Now, they’re pushed together—as close as they can possibly be.

Sakusa, in his too big pinstripe pajamas, and Wakatoshi in his worn down purple Shiratorizawa shirt and a random pair of sweatpants.

He looks at Sakusa now, turning the pages of a book he was reading, and thinks _I’m still not unhappy._ He looks at Sakusa now, tired and stoic and warm by his side and thinks _with you, my contentment feels boundless._

The path to the house is one with rough roads and undistinguishable directions—one they’d chosen with care to how they would like to spend retirement. Wakatoshi wanted peace and Sakusa wanted privacy, so they bought the house and hired a housekeeper to keep it in shape when they were busy.

They were always busy. The house collects dust that Tsukasa-san sweeps up.

Sometimes, Wakatoshi makes the trip to the house alone, and when he does, he goes on public transport, taking up as little space as physically possible so as not to inconvenience the other commuters.

More often than not though, he is travelling down the mostly abandoned dirt roads on his car with Sakusa riding shotgun, surgical mask hanging off of one ear for the sole purpose of letting Wakatoshi catch glimpses of his barely-there smile.

Wakatoshi places a hand on the empty passenger seat that Sakusa has left stale in his absence, his other hand directing the steering wheel. He’d told him he’d catch up after a few days, and Wakatoshi was already thinking about cleaning it up even more thoroughly than he usually did in anticipation of his arrival.

Tendou, during one of his sporadic visits to Wakatoshi’s apartment in Tokyo, once told him that the way they operate around each other was a love language. He was severely drunk and he’d passed out on the couch after that, but now Wakatoshi cannot get the thought out of his head.

He likes it. That people notice. That people understand, in their own way.

There is love that rattles chests, misplaces ribs, turns skin inside out. There is love that ravages and dethrones; there is love that burns and oozes; there is love that is beyond comprehension and beyond salvation.

And there is _this_.

It does not sound as impressive or as earth shattering, but it is a love that is steady and still. It is a love that is honest and true. It is a love that grows over time—tended to and cared for in a plot of soil meant just for them.

There is no overstepping, no underselling, only plenty of diligence and hard work invested into making their relationship the best it could possibly be.

He parks the car in a parking lot by the municipal hall. There’s still a while to treck before they can actually see the house, standing in a lot far from the main highway, but that’s fine. He pulls out his duffel bag from the backseat and turns off the ignition.

“I’m home,” Wakatoshi announces to the empty house, after turning the key into the knob and opening the door to the house. It’s a little old fashioned, but they both liked it like that, so they kept it.

There’s been some work done since the last time Wakatoshi came—probably Sakusa’s doing—the glass on the windows have been replaced with a sturdier model, and the kotatsu has been kept out of sight, ready for when the cold starts up again.

He moves to take off his shoes when he notices the footsteps on the tatami flooring and the smell of _hayashi_ rice wafting in from the kitchen as the house creaks in anticipation at Wakatoshi's reaction.

Sakusa Kiyoomi materializes before him, fondness pulling at the corners of his lips as he takes off the surgical mask he was wearing and folds it up.

“Welcome home,” he greets him, mild, the dimple around his mouth making an appearance.

To be earnest is to be attentive, he thinks. To be attentive is to be loving.

And to be loved—to be treasured, and to be kept—

That’s a different blessing altogether.

* * *

_It’s your dream,_ Sakusa tells him later in bed, looking up at him from beneath his dark lashes, still so, so warm. His skin feels like everything good in this world. _Run after it and when you’re tired, we will still be here. Myself and this house, kept for when you are ready to settle down with me._


End file.
